


R00623

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Bad Decisions, Drunk Sex, Las Vegas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20248987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: An incidental road trip to Nevada and what stays there.





	R00623

Sweet talking Cyril into letting him own whichever rides he wants turns out to be extremely worth it; as soon as he hears Max’s been fucking around in Vegas, Daniel fires up the 275 GTS and speeds down 10 Freeway, something he reckons he wouldn’t be able to do in a Clio. It’s the stupidest thing he’s done for a love interest since graduating—Southwest has $50 flights on sale, and he’s a pretty lazy driver outside the grid, yet he craves the feeling of doing twenty over the limit through the unforgiving desert.

Plus, knowing Max is the pot of gold at the end of the interstate is tempting enough on its own.

The I-15 isn’t particularly scenic. He puts on _Hotel California_ and pretends to be surprised when a trooper lets him off the hook once she realises he drives fast for a living. Mostly, he thinks of Max with his shirt halfway open, pink lips lit up by the tantalising neon of the slot machines, and guns it.

* * *

It’s not hard to get a room at the Wynn, even if he laughs at the silly fake trees around the lobby and has nothing on him except a handbag, which raises some eyebrows at the reception desk.

He flops on to the gaudy dream bed, whatever that means, and digs his phone out of his pocket.

_Hey_, he texts Max, a reasonable start to a terrible idea.

_What’s up?_ Max replies immediately.

Daniel pats his own back inwardly. An undisputed victory. _You in Vegas?_

A couple of minutes pass before his phone chimes with a _Yep_, followed by a row of stuck-out tongue emojis. He chooses to interpret them as a clear sign of Max’s interest, even if he’s not as down with the kids’ lingo as he’d like to be.

_Where are you_, he asks, because it seems like Max isn’t giving him any answers for free today.

_Bellagio_.

Daniel whistles at the screen. He’s never gotten a chance to stay there. Well, if he hits the jackpot, he might just get a free night over. _Wynn. 54th floor_, he sends back, though Max didn’t ask. _Want to meet up?_

Max says, _You know I do_, and Daniel strolls into the oversized bathroom with a newfound spring in his step.

* * *

Daniel’s about to give up on his treasure hunt through the Bellagio and dive into a Wheel of Fortune addiction when someone taps his shoulder. He turns around all smiles, ready to take pictures with a fan—

“Hi,” Max slurs, leaning closer to Daniel’s ear than strictly necessary. “Oh my God, where the fuck were you?”

“Are you drunk?” he asks instead, nodding towards the half-empty cup in Max’s hand.

“No,” Max says, and Daniel believes him. They’ve been to the Casino de Monte-Carlo too many times, enough for him to recognise what a hammered Max actually looks like. “I’m just, you know, a little funny.”

“A little funny,” Daniel echoes. He hops to his feet and claps Max’s back enthusiastically. “Alrighty, let’s get this show on the road.”

Max gives him a blank stare. “Show?”

“Yep,” he pops the P for emphasis. “The Danny Ric and his sidekick show. Let’s go, I got somewhere I wanna take you.”

* * *

_Somewhere_ is code for the Ben & Jerry’s directly across the Strip, where Daniel buys them a huge tub of Cherry Garcia and shoves a spoonful down Max’s throat. He’d almost forgotten how fun Vegas can be, a constant party surrounded by murderous cabbies and people who wouldn’t recognise him if he were in full Renault gear.

“This tastes like shit,” Max announces, so loud he receives an unamused glare from the girl behind the counter. “It’s so bitter.”

“It’s _cherry_,” Daniel balks, stealing the plastic spoon from him. “You’re such a peasant. You have no taste. Alright, let’s get out of this goddamn hellhole.”

* * *

They walk to a small brewery next door.

Sin City is the perfect place to share a pint of ice cream and get drunk al fresco, not that Max had included this program in his travel plans. Fancy beer isn’t his forte.

It is, however, one of Daniel’s favourite subjects—and as he leans over the counter and chats to a bartender about the intrincacies of whatever the hell an amber lager is, Max might not pick up on the actual words, but his eyes follow the narrow movements of Daniel’s mouth through the entire thing.

* * *

After they’ve had enough pints to be on the drunker side of tipsy, Daniel asks, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Yeah,” Max mumbles. He’s surprisingly pliant; Daniel has no trouble escorting him out of the premises and shoving him into a taxi.

“The Wynn,” he tells the driver. When he turns to Max for confirmation, all Daniel gets is a coy smile and the slide of a finger down his biceps.

Okay, then. Daniel decides he’s fine with missing out on the Bellagio’s fountain view for tonight.

* * *

The Wynn casino is _enormous_. Busty women in tacky outfits welcome them with weird waves, their empty words barely audible over the cacophonous slot machines. 

They stop at a busy roulette table at first. Max looks painfully unimpressed by the prospect of gambling against other people, especially considering their current state of inebriation.

“Lady Luck’s all over me. I kicked Marko’s arse through the entire first half of the season,” Daniel says, right before placing a straight bet on number three and losing $200.

“You’re so shit,” Max chortles. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

When Max walks up to the rail, a man in a suit gives him a once-over and says, “May I see your ID, sir?”

Daniel bites his tongue to try and hold back his laughter. “Yeah, Max, let him check your age,” he says, voice wavering. God, this is the best day of his life.

Max shoots him a threatening look and whips out his passport. “Here you go,” he grumbles.

The moment the man leaves, Daniel cackles so hard tears sting the corners of his eyes. He sidles up to the gruff dealer and tells her, “He’s a baby.”

Max flips him the bird faster than he can say _a 17-year-old in Formula 1_.

* * *

As it happens, while Daniel is a seasoned Vegas veteran and plenty aware of how a complimentary drink turns into twenty, he doesn’t stop plucking glasses of Tanqueray off cocktail waitresses’ trays—nor does Max. 

* * *

Their next destination is a craps table, where Daniel places $500 on the pass line and Max rolls a seven. Whether it’s the thrill of a win or the alcohol buzzing in his bloodstream, it doesn’t matter; either way, Max darts his tongue over his lower lip and glances at him through half-lidded eyes, and Daniel can’t help sliding a hand down his spine and on to his arse.

“Good job,” Daniel whispers, oblivious to the suggestive smirk the stickman gives them. 

* * *

“Can you stand up on your own?”

Max, whose body is pending slightly to one side, says, “Obviously.”

Daniel reluctantly lets go of him to rummage through his pockets. He flashes both a wobbly smile and his keycard at a guard and pushes Max towards the elevator bank, glaring daggers at the sluggish floor indicators. 

It feels like an hour goes by until the doors open with a _ding_, a bunch of people shuffling past them as if they’re invisible, which is exactly what Daniel’s been praying for all night long. He doesn’t wait for them to start ascending before pinning Max against the full-length mirror, his chest pressed firmly to Max’s back. “Hi there,” he says.

“Hey,” Max says, looking at Daniel’s reflection. “You’re very excited.”

There’s not much point in lying to a person who’s able to feel your extremely conspicuous erection, Daniel figures. “I am.”

“Well, do something about it,” Max mumbles. “You’ve been givin’ me blue balls all night.”

The elevator slows to a stop on the 54th floor. Daniel quickly scrambles away and assumes his best not-snogging-my-friend posture, just in case anyone comes in and recognises them.

* * *

The corner room is stupidly far from the lifts, and Daniel curses his past self for believing that was a valuable upgrade.

“This is taking so long,” Max whines. It echoes through the narrow hallways, and Daniel slaps his mouth shut.

“Don’t be loud!”

“Mhn—”

Daniel assumes that’s an apology and lets go, walking faster to try and reach his fucking room already. His dick is going to explode if it doesn’t get some action, stat. 

Another turn and a marathon down a corridor leads them to the gates of sex heaven. “Okay, this is us,” Daniel says, struggling with the small lock. _Click_.

Hell yes. 

He drags Max inside and closes the door by slamming their bodies into it; two birds, one stone, baby. Daniel lavishes dirty kisses all over Max’s face, trailing down his jawline and on to the dip of his collarbone. The smell of alcohol clings to Max’s body, sharp and sweet on his soft skin. 

One thing muscle memory hasn’t allowed Daniel to forget is that Max simply isn’t equipped for gentleness: his nails leave burning lines down Daniel’s back even through his shirt.

Daniel moves back up to kiss his mouth, the splash of his tongue melting Max like a sugar cube. “You’re fucking hot,” he groans, squeezing Max’s hips for emphasis.

“I know.”

For a moment, they stare at each other in silence, chests going up and down in sync. “I’m so horny,” Max says eventually.

Daniel snorts, but responds in kind by pulling away and jumping on to the mattress, splayed out like a starfish as he waits for Max to join him. Max, eager puppy that he is, manages to shuffle out of his shoes and jeans in the ten steps it takes him to reach the bed, an impressive feat for someone under the effect of a boner and several drinks. He crawls with his hands on either side of Daniel’s spread legs, leaning in to nuzzle the ink below the hem of his shorts.

“You’re obsessed with my tattoos,” Daniel notes, eyes shut, head thrown back in pleasure. “It’s cute.”

“They’re nice. I like them.”

“My dick is nicer,” he says. “You’re gonna love it.”

In a beautiful display of clemency, Max stops his slow teasing and slides the front of Daniel’s pants down to reveal a half-hard cock that, quite frankly, looks better than he remembers from their last encounter. Max wastes no time in wrapping his swollen lips around it, gathering saliva as best he can despite his mouth being drier than the fucking Mojave Desert.

“Holy shit,” Daniel gasps. Warmth blooms inside Max’s chest, pride filling him like it does whenever he earns that kind of visceral reaction—he loves the incoherent praise spilling from Daniel’s lips now that his mental filters are mostly gone, the tight grip on his hair, _everything_. “You’re…”

He never finishes that particular train of thought. 

Max moves up and down, rhythm increasingly faster with every hitch of Daniel’s breath. His fingers paint a pretty picture, pale and thick against the colourful backdrop of Daniel’s muscled thighs, and handfuls of his hair stick to his sweaty forehead as Daniel’s hold on him weakens. 

The telltale signs pile up: loose limbs, looser tongue; shaky thrusts, shakier breath. They’ve done this too many times for Max not to know Daniel is close—in all honesty, he could probably tell from a mile away. 

“Fuck, Max, I’m—”

Max lives and dies by the apothegm of “spitters are quitters,” and he proves it. He rides out Daniel’s orgasm, jerking his sensitive dick even after he swallows the thick spurts of come and sits on his haunches to appreciate the show.

Daniel weakly pushes himself up on his elbows. “I feel like you just sucked out my soul,” he says, looking at Max pensively. “I’m pretty sure you actually did.”

“I have that effect on dudes,” Max says, throat fucked out to the point his voice is hoarse. (He personally thinks he sounds moronic. Daniel seems to find it arousing for some reason.)

“Dudes?” Daniel laughs. “Have you been…?”

“Nope,” Max admits. “You were my first. And my last. Before this, I mean.”

Perhaps he’s old and maudlin, but the knot in Daniel’s throat tightens a bit. “Okay,” he says after a pause. “Do you want me to, y’know, give you a hand?”

Max exhales loudly at the cheap pun. “Nah, I can’t… I just don’t come when I’m drunk.”

“Then what the hell did you say I gave you blue balls for?” Daniel moans. “If I knew, I’d have messed with you for like, an hour.”

“So you would get on with your lovely show, of course.”

A pillow flops weakly over Max’s head. “Idiot,” Daniel says. He pulls his underwear back up, tucking his dick away with a quiet salute for its service. “Come here, I want to cuddle.”

Max gladly complies, but just because Daniel knows what’s spooned in Vegas stays in Vegas, really.

**Author's Note:**

> [Title source](https://www.genome.jp/dbget-bin/www_bget?rn:R00623). I think instead of vaguely related song lyrics we should all use tangentially relevant chemical reactions to name our fic instead. (I’m losing my mind and this is a cry for help. Ha.)
> 
> Daniel actually owns a 275 GTS according to Top Gear Taxi.
> 
> There is, in fact, a Ben & Jerry’s and a brewery called Sin City located across from the Bellagio. Geographical accuracy, baby. 
> 
> I’ve been to one hotel in Vegas and it was neither the Bellagio nor the Wynn. In fact, I haven’t ever entered the Bellagio. I _did_ get carded for standing around in the Wynn Casino, which gave me the perfect mental image of Max Verstappen going through the same thing.
> 
> “Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube?” Excerpt from _Snow and Dirty Rain_ by Richard Siken.
> 
> singlemalter on Tumblr, you know the drill.


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